


some days i (wish that i wasn't myself)

by notcaycepollard, Roga



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Journalist Seb, M/M, Miscommunication, Non-Famous Seb, Pining, chris evans and his stupid beautiful golden emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 07:54:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10759983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roga/pseuds/Roga
Summary: The problem, Seb never meant to say out loud, has always been that if he got Chris Evans’ dick in his mouth it would definitely end up making the story.





	some days i (wish that i wasn't myself)

This isn't how celebrity interviews are supposed to go, Sebastian’s pretty sure.

It's not like he has a lot of experience with them, really. This is his first big profile, a sit-down with an honest-to-god A-lister who's ready to bare all his thoughts for a great pullquote. Seb's been with GQ eight months and this is it, he can feel it, this is the piece that'll get him places. It's about fucking time, after being stuck in unpaid internship hell for years, skimping on everything, living on nothing but cigarettes and shitty black coffee because it beats yet another bowl of instant ramen. At least he'd had the foresight to switch his major from theater to journalism when he'd figured the whole acting thing might not pan out after all.

Turns out, five hours later, that ‘places’ means bouncing from bar to restaurant to another bar, a dark club on the Strip, a not-quite-private party where half the faces are familiar and Chris is being a little too solicitous for it to feel exactly professional. Seb’s drunk so much he’s seeing double, has to take a deep breath and think _how the fuck did we get here_.

“You’re trouble,” he tells Chris, “that’s what I’m putting in my article. Chris Evans got me drunk and invited me to an exclusive club party. You’re all, like, frat-boy mischief, fuck.”

“Whatever,” Chris shrugs. Pats Seb’s thigh. “You want another drink?”

Yeah, Seb wants another drink. He accepts the vodka soda, throws back half in one go. Watches Chris working the room and wonders what exactly is going on here.

He’s still wondering when Chris comes up to him again, sits down next to him and slings his arm around Seb’s shoulders.

“Look, I don’t smoke,” Chris says, confidentially low into Sebastian’s ear. “But I _really_ want a cigarette, you think I could bum one?”

“Yeah,” Seb says, “yeah, of— of course, man.”

“You’re gonna join me, right?”

“I can,” Seb says. “If you want me to?”

“Oh, I want you to,” Chris tells him, and it comes out smooth, perhaps a little possessive, his blue eyes dark and intent. If Seb didn’t know better, he’d think— fuck, he’d think, maybe, that Chris is flirting.

 _That’s ridiculous_ , he tells himself, it’s truly and honestly laugh-out-loud ridiculous, and he laughs at himself, pulls out his smokes and presses the pack into Chris’ hand.

“Come on, then.”

They sit outside in the warm LA wind, Chris lighting up a cigarette and inhaling with obvious satisfaction. He tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and Seb takes a moment to look at the line of his throat, his jaw, his hair falling messy out of its style.

“So,” he says, conversational. “You don’t smoke, huh?”

“Oh, god,” Chris groans, “you’re gonna write about this, aren’t you.”

“Look, when Chris Evans asks if you want to share a cigarette, you don’t say no,” Seb tells him. “Tell me about why you quit.”

“Why does anyone quit,” Chris shrugs. “Bad for you. My mom kept asking real nice. All disappointed, you know? There’s no way to avoid my mom’s disappointed face, shit, I’ll have to introduce you to her some time. Anyway, there was that, and then, y’know, all the training for Cap, it was fucking me up. You don’t really think about how much it fucks with you until you’re working out for five hours a day. So I quit.”

“You miss it?”

“Yeah, Sebastian, I miss it,” Chris says. Flicks away the butt of his cigarette, and holds eye contact for one beat, two, too long, and then he’s reaching out, taking Seb’s half-smoked cigarette from his mouth, fingers brushing Seb’s lower lip. “You don’t mind, right?”

“You could have just had another one,” Sebastian says, trying very hard not to think about Chris touching his mouth like he’s allowed. “It’s a fresh pack.”

“I didn’t want another one,” Chris says, “I wanted yours,” and grins, cheeky. Smokes Seb’s cigarette like he’s getting away with something.

“Oh my god,” Seb mutters, faking outrage, “so _entitled_. What a Hollywood brat, I can’t believe you. ‘Go drinking with Chris Evans, he’ll steal your cigarette right out of your mouth’, that’s gonna be the subtitle right there.”

“Oh, is it,” Chris says. Bumps his shoulder against Seb’s. “Yeah, you got me. You know what we need, man? We need some shots.”

That’s a bad idea, Seb thinks, but caught up in the tidal pull of Chris and his blue eyes, the sharp-edged nicotine haze and the glittery thrum of an LA he never sees, it’s difficult to come up with a reason to say no.

 

When Sebastian wakes up, he has a moment of absolute and terrifying disorientation. This isn’t his bed, fuck, where the _fuck_ —

He flails out of the tangle of covers. Blinks at the dim room. It’s nice, impersonal, obviously someone’s guest room. Soft gray walls, crisp linen, a glass of water and a couple of Advil on the bedside table next to him. He throws them back. Drinks the water, and tries to get his bearings. The last thing he remembered, he’d been in a club, somewhere loud and glittery-dark. He has a dim flash of memory, the scrape of someone’s teeth on his throat. Breathless laughter, a hand in his hair. When he grasps for it, the memory fades away like smoke.

Oh, _shit_ , he thinks, suddenly and desperately aware of exactly where he is. He’s in _Chris Evans’ guest room,_ holy fuck, this is so far beyond the professional line, he’s got to leave, _fuck_. He finds his phone—still in his pocket, thank god—and checks his messages, wonders how the fuck he’s gonna get a cab up here at five in the morning when he’s got all of fifty bucks until payday.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks again, and pulls himself together, creeps out of the house without waking anyone up. It’ll make a good story, at least.

 

He doesn’t expect anything more, really. Starts work on his article, and then three days later he’s got an email from Chris’ assistant, an invite to some Hollywood glamor thing. _Mr Evans asked me to pass this on_ , she’s added, _it’s casual, no need for a tux_. Oh, great, Seb thinks, as if he’d have been able to come up with a tux at short notice, come the fuck on.

He goes, because it’s work; it’s work in a way he shouldn’t forget this time. Sips a vodka soda very slowly like perhaps he can avoid getting embarrassingly drunk and passing out in Chris’ fucking guest room, and then all of a sudden he’s in the middle of a conversation with someone so warm and sweet and funny she can only be Chris Evans’ mom.

“You’re doing a piece, right? Chris said you were doing a piece.”

“Yeah, I— he, uh, he told you?”

“Oh, sure. He told me all about it,” she says, eyes sparkling. “You should give me your number so I can text you with my opinions after it comes out.”

Seb’s keying his number into her phone, bewildered, when Chris joins them. Kisses his mom on the cheek, touches the small of Seb’s back and leans in briefly like he might kiss Seb too. Pulls back at the last minute, grins at them both.

“Hey, I see you’ve met! Mom, promise you won’t text him arguing with his article, right? You know that’s what she does? Just gets on the internet and argues with people who have bad opinions of my films?”

“I promise,” Seb says. Flashes a smile. “I won’t write anything about Chris that isn’t true.” Chris rolls his eyes. Punches Seb in the arm.

“Leaving yourself a lot of room there, Sebastian. I guess I deserve it, getting you so drunk the other night.”

“Yeah,” Seb says. Swallows. “About that. How’d I—”

“Oh my god,” Chris says, clearly amused. “You don’t remember. Mom, Sebastian got so wasted. I looked around for him when we left the club and he was lying in the gutter, I swear.”

“You don’t have to tell _your mom_ how messed up I was,” Seb hisses, mortified. Presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. “No, look, I wasn’t in the gutter, I was just on the curb trying to figure out a cab.”

“Well, anyway, I figured taking you home and leaving you to sleep it off was the best option.”

“In his own bed?” Chris’ mom asks, sharp, and Chris ducks his head, blushes. Seb closes his eyes. Thinks: _I cannot possibly be more embarrassed than I am right now._

“Mom,” Chris says, “of _course_ his own bed. I have a guest room. I have like three guest rooms. Anyway, you left your jacket at my place, man, I’ll get Emily to send it over to you. On one condition.”

“Shit,” Seb says. “Yeah, what?”

“You have to say I’m the greatest person you’ve ever met,” Chris tells him. “In your article.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Seb says. “Fuck, fine, yeah, okay.”

That’s how he finishes the article, in the end. _Chris Evans is the greatest person I’ve ever met in my life, which is what I told him I'd say in this article if he gave me back the leather jacket I accidentally left at his house, and he did._

Chris’ mom texts him. Chris does not text him. That’s fine, Seb thinks, that’s just fine. It’s not like he expected anything. It’s just, maybe—

Well, it’s just that he wonders, every so often, exactly what happened that night. Whether those hazy memories have any fact to them. Figures he’ll never know the whole truth and he’s just got to deal with it, and that’s okay, he’s been doing that for years, but it’s just. It’s kind of different when it’s a celebrity whose face he sees everywhere he goes.

 

* * *

 

Three years later, when he’s given a last-minute assignment, all he can think is: _figures_.

He’d think it was because of the GQ piece—he’d kind of gotten a certain notoriety, _that guy who got blackout drunk with Chris Evans and wrote an article about the experience, a walking catastrophe slash public love letter_ —but in fact, it’s completely by chance, a fluke involving someone else coming down with the flu and winding up in hospital and the Vanity Fair editor calling him in to beg a favor. It’s not like he’s going to say no, fuck, he’s doing better than he used to but you don’t say no to Vanity Fair.

“We want something serious,” the editor tells him. “In-depth and thoughtful. Heartfelt, no party stories.”

“That was years ago,” he promises, wincing at himself, “don’t worry, it’ll be much less messy this time,” and tries to keep that in mind the whole time he’s driving up to Chris’ house. Same house, Seb thinks, and knocks at the front door.

When Chris opens the door it’s very, very clear that Sebastian isn’t who he was expecting.

“Oh,” he says, “you're not Ilse.” Pauses, and then his eyes widen incrementally, and he licks his lips, tilts his head to the side. “Hey, it’s you.”

“Fuck,” Seb says, intelligently. “Oh, jeez, you didn’t— I’m so sorry, I talked to your PR, she said she’d email you. Ilse’s super sick, they had to reassign the piece.” That answers that question, he thinks, burning with embarrassment; he doesn’t know what’s worse, for Chris to be remembering the whole blackout-drunk-guest-room debacle or that he might have forgotten Sebastian entirely. Chris is shaking his head, digging his phone out of his pocket and thumbing through his emails, and Seb gnaws on his lip, tries very hard to look mature and professional and like he does, in fact, work for fucking Vanity Fair. But Chris looks up, apology all over his face. Holds up his phone.

“Shit, no, she totally did email me, I’m sorry, man. Come on in,” and as Seb steps inside, Chris settles his hand on the small of his back, ushers him through into a spacious and warm kitchen. “You want a drink? Coffee? I just put a pot on. You take yours black, right? Two sugars?”

“I, uh,” Seb starts. Blinks. Chris hasn’t moved his hand, his thumb rubbing very lightly down Seb’s spine, and he’s radiating sincerity so hard Seb is physically taken aback by it. His eyes are still very blue. Sebastian was not prepared.

“Yeah,” he manages eventually. “Coffee would be great, actually. Thank you.”

“Great,” Chris grins, dimpling. Grabs mugs down from a shelf—mismatched, Sebastian notes, like he’s an actual fucking person and not someone who sent their interior designer or their PA out to the nearest homewares store. These aren’t the kind of details he was sober enough to notice, the last time he was in Chris’ house. Chris sets them down on the counter, glances at the pot. It’s still brewing, and he shrugs. Gestures at the living room.

“I figure we can settle in there, right? That work for you? Make yourself comfortable, Sebastian.” Seb actually fucking shivers at the curl of Chris’ voice around his name. Has to shake himself out of it—he's a professional, for shits sake, he's been doing this for years, he's not that idiot child anymore—and he sits down on one of the couches, grabs his phone and sets it up to record on the coffee table. Puts his satchel down at his feet, unbuttons his shirt cuffs and rolls them up past his wrists just as Chris comes in carrying their coffee. His hands are full; he's got a pack of cheap powdered sugar donuts in his mouth, teeth clenched around the plastic packaging.

“Don't put this in your article,” he says once Seb takes a mug from him and he can grab the donuts with his free hand, “I'll get in trouble with my personal trainer for eating stuff that's not on my approved list, I just figured— anyway, shit, my mom would be mad too. Who the fuck serves a guest gas-station donuts, my god.”

“I won’t tell,” Seb says. Winks at him, daring. “Your secret’s safe with me.” Everything suddenly freezes, breathless, as Chris looks across at him, fixes Seb in his gaze for a long moment.

“Is it?” he says seriously. Lets his eyes flick to Seb’s mouth for just a second, and then he’s sitting back in his chair, sipping his coffee and still looking at Seb across the rim of the cup. Seb hesitates. Drinks his coffee, puts the mug down on the table.

“I’m just gonna,” he says, and rips open the pack of donuts. “Just, you know, so you don’t have to keep feeling bad.”

“Thank you,” Chris says, still serious, and then he’s smirking, breaking into laughter, reaching for a donut. _Yeah,_ Seb thinks, _I can do this_ , and gets the interview started just the way he knows how, everything he’s learned over the last three years, an easy conversation he can spin into a story.

 

Over the course of hours, Sebastian finds himself unwinding, unfolding, and he finds himself with his feet kicked up onto the couch, laughing loud and unguarded at Chris’ worst jokes. It doesn’t feel like an interview; it feels like the easiest kind of date, like hanging out with an old friend, and even as he’s letting himself sink into enjoying it, he’s observing from the outside, making little mental notes that’ll spin, later, into copy about _the unguarded Chris Evans._ Chris is just as Seb remembers, and different too, grown and settled into himself. More thoughtful, just like his editor said, and they cover different ground, different topics, Chris offering new facts about himself he hadn’t touched on the last time around. He doesn’t toe the industry line Seb’s heard a hundred different times from a hundred different people. Chris didn’t _always want_ to be an actor, didn’t yearn for it and work his way up through a thousand rejections, through shitty jobs and shittier apartments and living on cigarettes and wanting; he wanted to be an actor, and then he was an actor, has successfully and profitably been an actor ever since, and the simplicity of the equation makes Seb’s head spin.

“What about you?” Chris asks, sudden, “did you always know you wanted to do this? Journalism?” Seb is taken aback by the intensity of it, the searching blue of his gaze like he's looking at Seb for answers Sebastian doesn't have.

“No,” he admits. Laughs a little. “I, uh, I wanted to be an actor, actually. Obviously, it didn't work out.”

“What happened?” Chris asks, leaning forward. Seb exhales. Bites his lip. _What happened,_ like Hollywood is easy to break into, like everyone's career ought to be as blessed as Chris Evans’. Like something must have _happened_ to stand in the way of Seb getting his break, like it wasn't just the slow and painful process of rejection after rejection, figuring out he was nothing memorable, brought nothing every other guy at the auditions wasn't already bringing and more. He thought he was done bracing for the sting, and he blinks. Brushes hair out of his eyes. Looks away, and Chris makes a noise of understanding, touches his knee.

“Shit, _sorry_ , that's such an asshole question, I know how…”

“I was scared,” Seb tells him, suddenly knowing the truth of it. It's something he's never voiced before. “I was afraid of… getting what I want, I think.”

“And now?” Chris says. “Are you— is this what you want?”

“I do okay,” Seb tells him. Suddenly tired. Takes a breath, looks down at his hands, and Chris shifts, reaches for their empty coffee mugs.

“You need a refill?”

“Yeah,” Seb says, grateful. If this is Chris reading him, recognizing how he needs a moment to pull himself back together, he's grateful. Too raw to be offended or embarrassed, if he's being honest—it's not professional behavior but he gets the feeling Chris doesn't give one shit about this interview being adequately professional—and as Chris disappears back into his beautiful kitchen to pour them another coffee, he stretches, picks at his nails, closes his eyes and lets out a long, long breath.

 

When Chris comes back, carefully carrying their coffee, he doesn't take the seat he was in. Instead he puts their mugs down on the raw wood slab table in front of them, settles down next to Seb, and Seb has just enough time to think, _Christ,_ he smells good, before Chris is leaning in, taking Seb's face in his hands, and kissing him like he's got a right to. It's— it's startling and weird and perfect, Chris’ thumb brushing light against the hinge of his jaw, and Seb hears himself make a soft sound that has Chris biting at his lower lip, pressing him back into the couch so he can kiss him slow and certain and luxurious. It's possessive; it's like Chris is laying claim, and he lets it happen, gives himself over to it in long increments.

He surfaces again as Chris is grazing his teeth down Seb’s throat, palming up under his shirt. Lets his head fall back, and Chris hums with satisfaction, sucks a livid bruise into the tender skin under Seb’s jaw.

“God,” Chris murmurs, “yeah, fuck, that’s…“ and fists his hand in Sebastian’s hair, kissing him again, his other hand drifting down over Seb's stomach, his hips, fingers sliding just below the band of his underwear. Chris Evans’ fingertips are about an inch away from Seb's dick, Seb thinks dizzily, and that's, weirdly enough, what prompts him to pull himself up, to scrape together his last grains of willpower to say, his hand settling over Chris’ to still the motion, “No, I—”

“No?” Chris asks, and Seb closes his eyes, opens them again.

“No,” he says, hearing the roughness in his own voice, but Chris doesn't push. Just nods, sits upright, brushes a hand down his shirt like it'll pull him together into a version of himself that hasn't spent the last twenty minutes kissing Sebastian into blissful incoherence. Chris' mouth is lush and red from kissing, from the scrape of Seb's stubble, and Seb has to close his eyes and take some deep breaths.

“You okay?” Chris says, all solicitous concern, and Seb presses two fingers against his mouth, nods jerkily.

“I'm fine,” he lies, “can you just— we should probably get back to, uh—”

“Yeah,” Chris says. “Yeah, of course.”

“So,” Seb says, awkward. Casts around for safe conversational ground. “The Patriots, huh?” and when Chris bursts into bright and surprised laughter, clutching at his own chest, all Seb can think is _wow, you really do that in real life._

 

He leaves pretty soon after. Packs up his bag, turns off the recorder on his phone. Lingers in the doorway, running his hand through his hair, and Chris leans in like he’s about to kiss Seb goodbye, pulls back at the last moment.

“You would have been a great actor,” Chris tells him softly. Brushes his thumb over Seb's lower lip. “If you had kept— you would have been excellent.” Seb feels it crack inside, feels his eyes go wide and hurt, and abruptly all he wants is to escape, to get away, to hole up alone so he can lick these unexpected wounds in peace.

“Okay,” he says, inane, and, “thanks, I— thanks,” and then Chris is letting him go, letting him leave, and Seb wants, desperately, to be very, very drunk.

 

He starts the article later that night, two-thirds of his way into a bottle of unutterably shitty vodka, and finds himself stalled out, the cursor blinking on the blank page. He’s got the recording of the interview, at least, has been letting it play soft in the background more for the sound of Chris’ voice than anything else, and he reaches for his phone, turns up the volume a couple notches.

 _What about you?_ Chris says, just as shocking the second time around, and Seb swears to himself. Doesn’t want to hear it again, can’t press pause. Can’t make himself skip past it. Just listens to the conversation, the long and awkward silences where he’s having some kind of emotional crisis about his life choices. Closes his eyes, bites his lip so hard it stings. The sound of his own exhale is raggedly loud, enough to set something aching in his chest.

 _How do you interview an actor about success when you're a failed actor_ , he types in the sudden silence, more honest than he should, and throws back his drink, half-melted ice cubes hitting his front teeth.

The sound of Seb gasping is loud and startling enough Sebastian actually jumps. Oh _shit_ oh fuck he’s— he’s got half an hour of them _making out_ recorded on his phone, and he doesn’t know whether to delete it or turn up the volume some more and pour himself another drink.

Chris moans, breathy, and Sebastian jumps again. He’s getting hard, Jesus, _fuck_ , it’s embarrassing but there it is, and he reaches for the bottle of vodka, pours another measure into his glass. Leans back in his chair and closes his eyes and unzips his pants, tries not to think too hard about what he’s doing. It's all too easy to stroke himself to the sound of Chris gasping, all soft-voiced words that spark memory of the way it sounded when Chris was murmuring it straight into his ear. _You're so good for me, yeah, look at you,_ and Sebastian’s dick jerks in his hand like he's gonna come already.

 _You could have had this_ , he tells himself, the real thing and not just the half-imagined memory of it, and maybe he's just an emotional masochist all the way down to his bones but the way it sets an ache in him, it just makes him gasp for breath. He could have— could have had this, could have had the career, could have had the dream. _You would have been great._ When he comes, his eyes are wet and his bottom lip stings, salt-sharp, where he's bitten it.

 

The issue is, if he’d let it happen—if he’d _slept with Chris Evans_ , Jesus Christ—it would have, inevitably and unavoidably, been the point of his story even if he’d done his best to hide it. That’s why he couldn’t; that’s why he’d pulled himself back from the brink, aching and wishing he could let it spin out, and he thinks Chris must understand that at some level, surely. Must understand why a writer, a _journalist_ , fuck, isn’t someone a celebrity should unfold himself to. It’s all too raw as it is; anyone who knows anything about Seb must be able to unpick the words and find what’s carefully not on the page.

 _Like all actors, it's Chris Evans’ job to sell us a dream,_ he writes. Touches his bottom lip and thinks about Chris’ eyes, his impossible earnestness. How he’d leaned in like all he wanted to do was learn all of Seb’s secret regrets. _Just the way it's my job to sell you on the idea that hanging out with Chris Evans is delightful, that he's warm and honest and goldenly, openly vulnerable. That he’ll turn the conversation into a therapy session, drawing out your painful secrets even when you’re supposed to be figuring out his. That if you’re around him all the Hollywood shit would fall away and you'd feel like it isn't just some ridiculous daydream._

_The thing is, though, looking at Chris, you stop believing it's a fantasy and start thinking you might get what you've wanted all along. That's the magic, right there._

 

Chris kissed Seb like he knew his way around Seb's mouth, Sebastian thinks suddenly, later, and all of a sudden he's lying awake and wondering, did he— did they…

 _Did we ever,_ he wants to say. Feels the ridiculousness of it—he can't text a fucking A-lister _hey, so that first time I interviewed you and got blackout drunk and woke up in your guest room the next morning, did we ever—_ but it's eating at him, not knowing, and Chris had kissed him so certain and so easy. Perhaps that's just the nature of celebrity, Seb thinks, perhaps that's how… maybe it's Chris Evans’ natural state of being, a golden and beautiful aura of confidence glossed over everything else. It must be nice.

 

Seb ends up sending two versions of the article to his editor: a bloodlessly professional profile, respectful and careful and publication-appropriate, and the piece he’d bled his own heart into. It’s raw, over-personal in a way that makes him get breathlessly panicked when he thinks too hard about it, but he’d edited and edited, carved it into something he’d been able to think, _yeah, this is it_.

They end up running the second one, and it’s maybe unsurprising that Chris never follows up with Seb. He gets another text from Chris’ mom, fuck _—I cried reading it, honey_ —and that’s barely even surprising anymore. Just the way it goes, Seb thinks, and considers taking the initiative, texting Chris first. _So, hey, we spent half an hour really intensely making out in the middle of our interview, and then I wrote an article supposedly about you that was really about my failures as a human person and the cherry on top is it’s not even the first time I’ve done it, you want to get a drink sometime?_

It’s ridiculous. He folds it away again, with the ease of long practice. Makes himself read every profile, even when it stings: Chris and his tender heart, his fragile and golden emotions, Chris talking earnestly about heartbreak and misunderstanding, and Seb can’t help but think, _Jesus, who did you give the chance to hurt you so bad?_

 

* * *

 

When they finally run into each other again it’s practically by chance a couple of years later: nothing big, just some easy freelancing Seb’s doing for a friend over at Empire. The press circuit for the latest Marvel release, and this time Chris is doing interviews alongside Anthony Mackie. _This should be interesting_ , Seb thinks, and introduces himself.

“Oh,” Mackie says, grinning, “I know who you are,” and Seb can’t help but look at Chris and how he’s squirming and blushing and clearing his throat.

“Do you just,” he says lightly, and Mackie’s grin gets bigger like he’s just daring Seb to say more.

“Come out with us tonight,” Mackie says when the interview's over, and sounds like he means it. Seb looks from him to Chris and bites his lip and has no idea what to say. He knows he shouldn't. His track record of hanging out with Chris Evans' friends is objectively bad and embarrassing one hundred percent of the time. And yet, eight hours later, here they are in a club in WeHo, being ignored so studiously that Sebastian has no doubt every person in the place knows exactly who they are.

“You still smoke?” Chris asks, and Seb shakes his head.

“I quit,” he says, “almost a year ago. Haven’t smoked since.”

“I shouldn’t ask if you want to share one with me, then,” Chris murmurs, “I don’t want to tempt you into breaking your streak,” and of course Chris Evans is the kind of person who can smoke a pack of cigarettes at a club and not immediately go back to wanting them all the damn time, Seb thinks a little furiously.

“No, let’s do it,” he says. Feels reckless, perhaps a touch desperate. “Why the fuck not.”

“Oh, I could give you a few reasons,” Chris says, and that’s how they wind up outside, Sebastian pushing down his deja vu and letting the wind tangle his hair.

“You know, your mom still texts me,” he says, and Chris rolls his eyes.

“My mom thinks you’re nice.”

“I _am_ nice,” Seb tells Chris. Takes the cigarette, inhales long and slow. Doesn’t miss how Chris focuses immediately on his mouth and doesn’t look away. The attention burns just under his skin, and he breathes out, licks his lips.

“You’re not nice at all,” Chris mutters, and that must be it, the tipping point, because three minutes later Chris has him up against a bathroom cubicle door, knee pressed between Seb's thighs, murmuring filth in his ear. Jesus, Seb thinks, this escalated, and his mouth tastes like cigarette smoke and expensive liquor, lips stinging just a little from the scrape of Chris’ beard.

The problem, Seb never meant to say out loud, has always been that if he got Chris Evans’ dick in his mouth it would definitely end up making the story.

“That is,” Chris says, more pointedly than anyone with his pants unbuckled and sliding down his thighs has any right to be, “if you remember.”

And that's just it, isn't it, Seb thinks as he drops to his knees, that's as much confirmation as he's ever gonna get that it went further. That the very first time they met, all those years ago, he got drunk and sucked Chris Evans’ dick and passed out in his guest room and then _didn't remember_. Handed in embarrassingly earnest copy about Chris and his blue eyes and his penchant for sniffing out mischief, his tender heart and frat-boy sweetheart aesthetic. And then, fuck, no wonder Chris had— that’s the baseline they’ve been operating on, a relationship entirely different than Seb had imagined, and he suddenly puts together all of the amused and sweetly indulgent expressions Chris has been making, like, every time they’ve met since then. Who the fuck sucks Chris Evans' dick and then forgets about it, honestly.

The only way to get through is to make it better this time, he thinks, and to fucking remember doing it, and dedicates himself to blowing Chris until he cries.

It’s been a few years since he’s done this—he was serious about getting past his pretty twink party writer reputation—but it’s not like it’s hard to remember. And it's good, it's— fuck, it's really good. Chris’ dick in his mouth, Chris’ hand in his hair, how the fuck did he forget this the first time around. Chris hauls him up when he's done, kisses him comprehensive and possessive and hard. Presses him back against the door, fumbles with his belt, bites at Seb’s throat, and Seb comes with Chris' hand shoved down into his jeans. Thinks, exhaling: _well, I guess that's it for another year or two, huh._

“So, you do this with all the journalists who’ve profiled you?” he asks, half-joking, and Chris stiffens, breath hitching a little.

“No,” he says, very serious, “the fuck, Sebastian.”

“Okay,” Seb says, “sorry, sorry.” Kisses the corner of Chris’ mouth, and Chris tilts his head to kiss him back like Seb is forgiven. It’s just, Seb doesn't— for all he knows, Chris Evans is sweet and genuine and sleeps with half the journalists he meets. Okay, yeah, that was a really great kiss—fuck, everything about the way Chris has kissed him, right back to twenty fucking fourteen, was really great—and Seb wants to think it felt like more, but here’s the thing: Chris Evans is a really fucking good actor, and Seb…

Sebastian isn’t, is all.

 

“I ordered you a car,” Mackie says, as Chris is taking care of the bill. “It was good to meet you, man. We should hang out again sometime. Don’t let Evans get all weird on you, I swear to god I won’t put up with him moping for another six months about some pretty writer who only talks to his mom. Once was enough, fuck.”

“I don’t—” Seb says, outraged, “she texted me first, it was just _polite_ ,” and Mackie laughs, wraps his arm around Seb’s shoulders.

“Yeah, okay, whatever. Have a good night, Sebastian, I’ll catch you around.”

 _Moping_ , Seb thinks in the back of the car, aware of everywhere he's pressed against Chris, the warmth of him. Had Chris— did Chris—

“Come home with me,” Chris says, not quite asking. “Please?”

“Yeah,” Seb agrees. Breathless, suddenly. “Yeah, okay.”

“Don’t write about this,” Chris says, voice low and rougher than Seb’s ever heard, and something clicks in Sebastian’s head.

“Oh,” he says, and then, again, “ _oh_.” Thinks of all those articles he’d read just to torture himself, Chris and his quietly understated heartbreak. “Oh, fuck, I’m an idiot.”

“Yeah,” Chris agrees, “yeah, Sebastian, you are.”

“I just,” Seb says. Swallows hard. “I never thought— I mean, fuck, you’re… you’re _you_ , right, and why would you… I was a mess. I wrote that fucking trainwreck of a piece, both goddamn pieces, and you still, I thought it was just—”

“It wasn’t,” Chris tells him. Glances at the tinted glass separating them from the driver, and Seb remembers, suddenly, how easily all this could become public. How he’s made it public in the past, lines blurred between intimacy and spectacle. “It’s fine,” Chris adds, even as it’s clearly not fine. “I should have said… well, I should have said _something_.”

“If I don’t write about this,” Seb says carefully, “you still want me to come home with you?”

“Yeah,” Chris sighs, smiling a little. Touching Sebastian’s thigh. “I really do.”

“And you’re not gonna put me in your guest room?”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Chris says. “No, Sebastian, I’m not gonna put you in my _fucking guest room_.”

This is definitely not how celebrity interviews are supposed to go. This is not how his _life_ is supposed to go. Seb thinks, maybe, he’s finally learned how to be okay with that, and lets Chris kiss him again, a slow and tender promise.

**Author's Note:**

> this is the fault of every single intolerably delightful chris evans feature article about chris evans and his penchant for taking journalists out to get drunk with him, and his fragile golden emotions, and his sweetheart frat boy demeanor, but specifically [this one](http://www.gq.com/story/chris-evans-gq-july-2011-cover-story) (from which that immortal line about the leather jacket is quoted in full) 
> 
> roga: I'm mentally half-casting Seb Stan as this mess of a fan-journalist in an AU where acting didn't pan out  
> notcaycepollard: can you IMAGINE  
> roga: All. Too. Well.
> 
> we wrote the first thousand words on fucking twitter, which, let me tell you: not a great medium for breathlessly run-on sentences


End file.
